you've already got me (under your spell)
by shineyma
Summary: Five universes in which Jemma Simmons and Grant Ward were forced to marry, and the one in which they weren't (but did it anyway).
1. i admit i don't even know you that well

A/N: First of all, before I forget, the title comes from "Don't Think About It" by Charlotte Church.

Second, this is all weasleyspotter's fault. She prompted me "Arranged Marriage AU" and I started to fill it, then I got another idea, then another, and now here we are.

Third, as the summary suggests, this will be a collection of five unrelated arranged marriage drabbles, of varying length and happiness. Follow-ups in the various universes are possible but unlikely.

Fourth, I already have the first two written. When the rest of it might be up, I have no idea.

I think that's it. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

* * *

><p>Jemma never gives any serious thought to trying to get out of the arrangement.<p>

She imagines it when she's a little girl, of course, as all little girls do. She spends the first few years of her life picturing a handsome prince sweeping her off of her feet and carrying her off into the sunset (after, of course, negotiating the cancellation of her contract—Jemma is a very conscientious child, and would never dream of jilting her intended). But those are only childish dreams, and they fade as she grows older.

Marriage is a duty. It's what's expected of her. And while Jemma actually _is_ in the habit of breaking expectations, it's always in a positive way. (Gaining two PhDs by the age of seventeen, for example—no one expected _that_.) All of those fairy tales about girls finding true love are just that: fairy tales.

By the time she turns eighteen and the contract comes due, Jemma has long since accepted her lot in life.

And it's not such a bad lot, not really. She's been well educated, allowed to pursue her dreams, and she has two kind, loving parents who have always doted on her. There are women all over the world in far, far worse circumstances than hers. Compared to what they suffer—well, having to marry a man she's never met isn't that much of a hardship, is it?

So Jemma isn't upset as she's led into the room where she will be meeting her intended for the first time. She isn't resentful, or scared, or plotting a last-minute daring escape. She _is_ a touch nervous, but that's only to be expected, isn't it? She's about to meet the man with whom she's expected to share the rest of her life. She's spent all of her life wondering about him and now, after eighteen years, she's finally going to get answers for all of her many, many questions.

All she knows about her intended is his name, and 'Grant Ward' doesn't give her much to go on.

The first meeting is, traditionally, conducted in private, so the woman who led her to the room leaves as soon as Jemma sits down. Grant isn't here yet, which does nothing for her nerves, and she folds her hands on the table and concentrates on keeping her breathing even.

She never thought she could be more nervous than she was when presenting her first doctoral dissertation. It appears she was wrong.

She's sitting with her back to the door, and she's grateful for it when she hears the door open, because it gives her one last moment to steel herself. She does so, then stands and turns to face her future as he steps into the room and closes the door.

Well. He's certainly…something.

In fact, he's gorgeous. And very tall. Jemma is well aware that she's rather on the short side, but facing her future husband, she feels positively tiny.

They spend a few moments just standing there, taking one another in. She wonders what he sees when he looks at her—wonders what he thinks of her, in her jeans and pink shirt and favorite earrings. She meant to dress up for this, she really did, but she was up so late last night on the phone with Fitz, discussing the problems with the sonic staff prototype, that it entirely slipped her mind when she woke up this morning (half an hour late).

For her part, Jemma is rather impressed. His personality is much more importance to her future happiness than his appearance, of course, but…still. Aesthetically speaking, she really has lucked out.

"Hi," he says eventually.

"Hello," she says. Unable to stand the thought of continuing the awkward silence, yet completely lacking in anything to say, she motions vaguely to the table. "Would you like to sit?"

One corner of his mouth ticks up in what might be a smile. "Sure."

She settles back into her seat as he rounds the table to take the chair across from her. Her hands are shaking a little from her nerves, so she folds them in her lap this time, hiding them beneath the table. Perhaps it's silly—surely he wouldn't begrudge her a little bit of tension—but she hates the idea of his first impression of her involving her shaking like a frightened child.

She is _not_ frightened. She's just…anxious.

"It's…nice to finally meet you," she ventures after another long moment of silence. "Grant."

"You, too," he says. "Jemma."

His tone when he says her name is a touch mocking, but in a somehow inoffensive way. Actually, it makes her smile, realizing how ridiculous she's being, and he smiles a bit in response.

He doesn't look nearly as uneasy as she must. In fact, he looks entirely relaxed. He's lounging back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms and hands loosely clasped in front of him. She wonders whether he's really as unconcerned as he appears, or if he's just better at hiding his nerves than she is.

It's something of a comforting thought, that he might not be as nervous as she is. She doesn't know why—misery, as they say, loves company, so surely she should prefer that he be anxious, too—but, there it is. It, along with the half-smile still lurking at the corners of his mouth, relaxes her enough to give conversation another try.

On the table is a list of suggested questions for getting to know one another, and Jemma leans forward a little to examine it. They're all very banal questions—age, interests, friends, and the like—but, for lack of anything better, she decides to follow them.

"So," she says. "I'm eighteen today, as you know. How old are you?"

"Twenty-two," he answers. "And happy birthday, by the way."

"Thank you," she says, and glances back down at the list.

Before she can read the next question, however, Grant leans forward and slides the list down the table, out of her reach.

"I don't think we need that," he says, sitting back. "Just…tell me about yourself."

Jemma has never been very good at speaking about herself. She can go for hours on science—on her work and her theories and the fascinating recent developments she's heard about—but when the topic is _her_, she can barely manage ten words. As evidenced by this very moment.

"What do you want to know?" she asks, a little hesitantly.

He shrugs a little. "You're eighteen. Are you in college?"

Ah.

"Actually, I've finished university already," she tells him, trying to match his casual tone (and mostly failing).

"Really?" he asks. He sounds impressed, and it warms her. "You're eighteen and you've already got a bachelor's? In what?"

"A PhD," she corrects. "Or, well, two of them."

He stares at her silently for a long moment, and she shifts a bit in her seat.

"Wow," he says finally. He chuckles slightly and rubs at one eyebrow. "Can't say I was expecting that."

She shrugs helplessly. She makes no apologies for her intellect—and, quite frankly, wants nothing to do with anyone who expects them—but it does tend to take people off guard, and she never knows what to say to smooth past the initial reaction.

"Two PhDs," he muses. "So, what do you do? Are you working towards more? Gonna go for a full dozen?"

She laughs a little, amused by how reasonable he makes it sound—like it wouldn't surprise him, or bother him, at all if she said that yes, she does intend to spend the next twenty years collecting PhDs.

"Tempting," she says. "But no, I…have a job." She tucks her hair behind her ear, some of her nerves returning. She has no idea how he's going to take this. "I do research for a multi-national organization dedicated to the betterment and protection of mankind."

It's inconvenient that SHIELD's existence is mostly classified. She won't be able to tell him more than that until they're actually married, which won't be until next week, and such a vague statement is bound to make him suspicious. Fitz has been joking about it for months—that her intended will think she's a spy or a member of a cult or some such nonsense. (It's easy for him to say; he's still two years away from marriage.)

Grant blinks a little then leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and pinning her with an unreadable look.

"Jemma," he says slowly. "Do you work for SHIELD?"

She stares at him, stunned. The only way he could _possibly_ know that is if…

"Yes," she admits, carefully. "Do _you_?"

"Yeah," he says, and chuckles incredulously. "I do."

"Well," she says, and can't resist the impulse to throw his own words back at him. "I can't say I was expecting _that_."

He shakes his head, smiling a little. "So, you're SciOps, then?"

"Yes," she confirms. "I'm a biochemist. I've just been assigned to the Hub."

"Really?" he asks. "Two PhDs at eighteen doesn't rate the Sandbox?"

"Oh, it did," she assures him. "There was…a slight incident. We were reassigned last week."

He looks entertained. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not," she says, and elects to change the subject. "What about you? Operations or Communications?"

She's assuming that he's not SciOps, since he doesn't seem to have heard of her. She doesn't mean to boast, but her early graduation from the Academy has earned her (and Fitz, of course) some measure of fame amongst her SciOps colleagues.

"Ops," he says. "I'm a specialist."

She's not entirely certain what she should say in response to that. She's never met a specialist before, and all she knows about them is what she learned in her Orientation course at the Academy: namely, that they undertake SHIELD's most dangerous missions and utilize a wide variety of skills, including elimination and infiltration, to accomplish them.

It all sounded very ominous to Jemma, not to mention perilous. She doesn't know how to react to the news that her future husband makes his living in such dangerous pursuits.

When she remains silent, Grant gives her a searching look, then evidently decides to change the subject.

"Who's we?" he asks, somewhat abruptly.

"Sorry?"

"Earlier, you said that _we_ were reassigned," he reminds her. "You and who else?"

Finally, a less awkward topic.

"Fitz," she says. "Leo Fitz. We're partners."

She tells him all about Fitz and then, at his prompting, a little about her work. He asks some surprisingly astute questions about her research and listens patiently when she digresses into stories about her time at the Academy. When she questions him about _his_ work, he dodges gracefully, claiming that all of his ops are classified above her clearance level—although she suspects that he just doesn't want to talk about it. She doesn't push him. She simply makes a mental note of the sore spot and allows him to steer the conversation back to her.

Before she knows it, their time is up.

Traditionally speaking, the first meeting lasts for only an hour. There will be six more such meetings, each progressively longer, until their wedding, which will occur one week from today. It's intended to give them time to know each other gradually, without becoming overwhelmed, and Jemma has always thought it a sensible tradition.

In practice, however, she finds herself reluctant to part ways with Grant.

She thinks he might feel the same; once he's walked her out of the building, they linger on the front steps in silence.

"So," he says finally. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, yes," she agrees. Then she pauses, glancing down at the curb, where a SHIELD fleet vehicle is idling, waiting to take her back to her hotel. She looks back at Grant. "Where are you staying?"

"The Sheraton," he says. There's a hint of a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth and, for perhaps the twentieth time in the last hour, she wonders what he looks like when he actually, honestly grins. "Can I catch a lift?"

"I think we can manage that," she agrees, beaming up at him.

She's surprised, but delighted, when he takes her hand for the short walk down the steps. He does it silently, pointedly not looking at her, so she swallows down her initial reaction and pretends not to notice—as though gorgeous men that she's meant to marry in a week hold her hand on a regular basis.

It's all gone so much better than she had dared to hope. And as he opens the car door for her, she can't help but allow herself to hope for a little bit more.

She's always thought that she could be content in her life with her husband, whomever he may be, because she's an expert at making the best of things and, if worse came to worst, she could always file for permission to live apart from him. It's a little soon to tell—they've only known each other for an _hour_—but she thinks, as Grant slides in next to her, that she might just end up more than content.

For perhaps the first time since she was a child, Jemma dares to hope that she might be happy.


	2. so don't pay no mind

The absolute last person Jemma expects to see walking up the cargo ramp is her husband.

Unfortunately, that's exactly who it is.

She abandons her unpacking—and her argument with Fitz—in favor of waiting for Grant to reach the top of the ramp. When he does, she crosses her arms and glares at him.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Grant drops his duffle bag next to the pile of luggage and matches her glare. "I'm team specialist. The better question is, what are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm team biochemist," she answers, mocking his tone.

"You're a scientist, not a field agent," he says, as though it may have escaped her attention. "How are you going to protect yourself in the field?"

"I believe that would be _your_ job," she points out. "Of course, it would require you thinking about someone other than _yourself_, so perhaps you're not suited to it."

His jaw ticks, but before he can say anything he's interrupted by the appearance of Agent Coulson, who drives up the ramp in a bright red sports car and parks it next to the waiting SUV.

"Is there a problem?" he asks, turning off the car and exiting it.

"Yes," Jemma says plainly. "Sir, I don't know if you're aware, but Grant and I are married."

She doesn't see how he could possibly _not_ know—seeing as how, despite her frequent protests, he keeps addressing her as Agent Ward—but she's holding out some minor hope that this is all a mistake.

It's a hope that Coulson quickly shatters. "I'm aware."

"Married couples aren't permitted to work on the same field team," Grant reminds him. "It's against protocol."

"True," Coulson nods. "But I'm sure you two will manage."

"Sir," Jemma starts.

He stops her with a raised hand.

"I want the best for my team, and you two are the best in your respective fields," he says firmly. "I have full faith in your ability to remain professional." His stern look disappears in favor of a bland smile aimed at Grant. "Now, if you'll come with me, Agent Ward? We have some things to discuss."

"Yes, we do," Grant mutters.

"Agent Fitz, Agent Ward," Coulson says, nodding at Fitz and Jemma, who twitches at the name. "We'll leave you to your packing."

"As I've said, Agent Coulson, I do prefer to use…" She trails off as he ignores her and heads up the stairs, followed closely by Grant (who's still visibly angry).

"Well," says Fitz, who has been hovering silently in the background the whole time. "That's…unfortunate."

"Yes," she agrees glumly. "It certainly is."

He pats her on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Simmons. We'll be sharing meals with him, you know. You could always slip something in his food."

"I could," she says, brightening. "What sort of poisons does this lab have stocked, do you think?"

"I didn't—I actually meant—um," Fitz falters, then sighs. "Let's have a look, then."

Of course, she wouldn't _really_ poison Grant. Or anyone at all, for that matter. But thinking about it is more than slightly cathartic. It's been one of her go-to coping methods for the last eight years.

Jemma married Grant three days after her eighteenth birthday. It was arranged, of course; her parents own an international shipping company and Grant's family is active in American politics, and the marriage of the Wards' second son to the Simmons' only daughter served to guarantee that both sides held to the lucrative trade deal they signed the day after the wedding.

Jemma was raised knowing that she would marry a complete stranger in order to increase her parents' profits, and she had long since accepted it by the time she turned eighteen. Grant was an entirely different story. Apparently he never learned to stomach what was expected of him, because he resented the arrangement—and Jemma—from the start.

Grant has never been particularly kind to her. In fact, he's occasionally been downright mean. He's dismissive and condescending and insulting, and has been since the moment they met. She tried to make things better, for the first few years, tried to work past it and learn to get along, but that sort of thing only works if both parties put in the effort and Grant, frankly, wasn't interested. Every attempt she made was met with increasing disdain, and eventually she simply accepted it.

Her husband hates her and she, in turn, has come to hate him.

Which should make this _team_ business interesting.

x

Interesting is one word for it.

For all that they've been married for eight years, Jemma and Grant have never spent much time together. As a specialist, his career has consisted mostly of long-term missions which take him away from home for months at a time. And Jemma, never eager to face him when he _is_ home, generally resorts to pulling all-nighters in the lab whenever Grant is on leave.

Now, quite suddenly, they're stuck living together for real. They do their best to avoid one another—Jemma stays in the lab most of the day and Grant avoids the lounge whenever she's upstairs—but the Bus really isn't that large, and there aren't many places to hide.

And, of course, there's the fact that in addition to living together, they're _working_ together. They're expected to interact in a professional capacity on a daily basis. It becomes slightly easier after the hijacking, when the two of them (along with Fitz and Skye and May) have to build a plan together, but it's still not simple.

There are too many years of hurt feelings—at least on Jemma's part—for any interaction to be simple.

They maintain a cold professionalism—up to and including addressing one another as Agent Ward and Agent Simmons—as best they can, but the occasional insult does slip through. On both their sides, if Jemma's honest. She tries to rise above it, but the fact of the matter is that they've spent _years_ hating one another, and just because there's suddenly a need to get along doesn't make their history disappear.

Speaking of their history, it also makes things slightly awkward with the rest of the team. Coulson, of course, knows full well the circumstances of their relationship, and amuses himself by making oblique references to it. Jemma is just happy that he's respecting her wishes and calling her Agent Simmons now, although that might be more about practicality than courtesy.

Fitz, naturally, knows all about it as well. He was actually _at_ their wedding, as it happens, and cheered her up beforehand by offering to cause a distraction so she could mount a daring escape. (There are times when she sincerely regrets not taking him up on it.) He also happens to be holding a long-standing grudge against Grant for the way Jemma has been treated, which does nothing for the tension.

It's difficult to tell whether May knows or not and, if she does, what she might think of the whole thing. It's difficult to tell what May thinks about _anything_, actually. Either way, she doesn't add to the awkwardness, which makes her Jemma's favorite non-Fitz member of the team, hands down.

And then there's Skye.

Skye, obviously, knows nothing of the situation. She knows that Jemma and Grant knew each other before being assigned to the team—hardly a stretch, considering the way they interact—and that there's tension there, but that's it. And, being the curious sort, she wastes little time in asking about it.

"So," she says one day, about a week after the disaster in Malta. "What's the deal with you and Ward?"

Jemma fumbles and nearly drops the slide she's holding. She sets it down carefully, then turns away from the counter to face Skye, pasting on a smile.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Come on, Simmons," Skye says. "You're way too smart to play dumb. There's something _up_ with you and Ward."

Jemma sighs and sits down on the stool across from Skye. "All right, yes. Agent Ward and I have…history."

"History?" Skye echoes. "What kind of history?" She leans forward and lowers her voice. "Did you two…?"

"He's," Jemma takes a deep breath. She's _sure_ there are things she'd like even less to talk about, but at the moment, none of them come to mind. "He's my husband."

Skye stares.

"That's…a joke, right?" she asks after several long moments of silence.

"I'm afraid not," Jemma grimaces.

"You guys _seriously_ used to be married?"

"No, no," she says, shaking her head. "We _are_ married. Present tense."

"Okay, but I would _swear_ you hate each other," Skye says.

Jemma nods. "We do."

"Then why are you…?" Skye trails off helplessly.

"It was arranged."

"Arranged?" she echoes. "Only like, super ridiculously wealthy people use contracts anymore."

Jemma shrugs and spreads her hands.

"Okay," Skye says. "Wow. So you and Ward are loaded. And I…used to live in a van."

"It was a very _nice_ van," Jemma offers.

Skye shakes her head sharply. "That's _so_ not the point. What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the windows are frosting over from the vibes between you two," Skye says. "There _has_ to be more to the story than an arranged marriage. I mean…did he cheat on you? Did you cheat on him?" She pauses, realization taking over her face. "It's Fitz, right?"

"No," she laughs. "It's nothing to do with Fitz. And no one has been unfaithful." She hesitates. "As far as I know, at least. We don't spend much time together."

"Okay, so…what, then?" Skye asks. "There is some serious bad feeling there. Everyone can see it."

Jemma sighs and slumps forward, resting her elbow on the table and propping her head against her hand.

"I don't know," she admits. "The thing is—I always knew that I would marry a man not of my choosing. It was simply how I was raised. And I thought, well, if I can't get out of it, I might as well make the best of it. But Grant…"

"Grant…?" Skye prompts when Jemma falters.

"He wasn't interested," she says. "In making the best of it, that is. I tried to get along with him, to find common ground, and he shut me down. Every time." She sighs again. "He hated me before he ever met me, simply because I was chosen for him. And, over time, as my efforts to get through to him failed…"

"You started to hate him, too," Skye finishes quietly.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," she says. "That must be really hard."

Something about the soft sympathy in Skye's voice makes Jemma's throat tight, and she clears it, sitting up properly.

"Yes, well, as I said," she says, straightening the slightly off-center monitor to her left. "We don't see each other very often. So it's not so bad."

"How does that work?" Skye asks, frowning a little. "I mean, obviously I've never even been in the same _state_ as one of those marriage contracts, but don't they usually have some pretty die-hard specs?"

"They do," Jemma confirms. "Including cohabitation, it's true. But the contract allows for separation in certain cases, such as business trips. And Grant, as a specialist, makes quite a lot of those."

"So he's gone for months at a time doing the spy thing," Skye surmises. "Maybe he should've stuck around more, because…I mean, sometimes the two of you…it's like you don't even know _how_ to be civil. Even when you're not actually saying anything mean—I swear the way he called you Simmons this morning was an insult."

"It was," Jemma nods. "As was the way I said good morning. This assignment has given us plenty of practice in insulting one another without obvious vitriol."

"How long have you been married?" Skye asks slowly.

"Eight years."

"And in eight years, you…never learned how to even _pretend_ to get along?" she presses.

"To be honest, this is the longest we've spent together since our honeymoon," Jemma admits. "And…we didn't do much speaking then."

"Wait, you two had a honeymoon?" Skye asks, incredulous. "And you _slept_ with him on it? Even though you _hate_ him?"

"Physically, we're very compatible," she defends. "It's just when we factor in personality that things get…difficult."

"Right," Skye drawls.

"Additionally, I didn't hate him yet, then," she adds. "I was still holding out hope of making the best of things."

"And he wasn't willing to make the effort to get along but was totally willing to have sex," Skye says, disgusted. "He's such a _guy_."

"Quite," Jemma agrees. She wheels her stool back a bit and stands. "And, now that we've settled that, it's time I return to work."

"Yeah, I've got training," Skye says, frowning at her phone. She looks at Jemma hopefully. "Do you want me to be difficult? Because I'm really good at being difficult."

"I believe you," Jemma promises, smiling. She's starting to become very fond of Skye, despite the unfortunate and awkward conversation they've just finished. "But that's not necessary. You shouldn't slack in your training."

"'Cause it might save my life one day," Skye grouses as she stands. "Blah, blah, blah." She tucks her phone into her pocket and heads for the door. "Later, Simmons."

"Later," she returns absently, attention already focused back on her work.

As it happens, telling Skye about her marriage does nothing to decrease the tension on the Bus. (But then, she never expected it to.)

x

Jemma has no time for regrets when she's dying. She has only two hours—or perhaps less; it's merely an estimate—in which to save her own life. There's no time for anything but developing an anti-serum.

If she _did_ have time for regrets, however, there would be quite a few of them. And the way her teammates—one in particular—react to the situation would certainly make the list.

Fitz stays by her side the entire time, of course. Skye leaves in tears. And Grant?

He just leaves.

He doesn't make eye contact with her even once. He listens to Coulson's explanation, nods, and goes back upstairs. And that—well. She doesn't have time for regrets.

But if she did, the state of her marriage would definitely be one of them.

She was so hopeful, when she was younger, that she would be able to find happiness in her marriage. Even though she wouldn't get to choose her husband, she thought that since he would be in the same boat, it wouldn't matter too much. In her heart, in her most secret dreams, she even hoped that maybe…someday…she might come to love her husband, and be loved in return.

Instead, she ended up with a man who hates her. A man who doesn't care that she's dying.

Perhaps he's even glad.

It feels like failure. She _knows_ that it's not her fault. She knows that she did her best to make things work. She had no chance of success when Grant didn't _want_ them to. She _knows _that it's not her fault that her marriage is in such a terrible state that her husband doesn't even care that she's about to die, but…Still.

It feels like failure.

That's what she'd be thinking, if she had time for regrets. So it's a good thing she doesn't.

x

Jemma's not expecting to wake up at all, so waking up stretched out on a raft with her head in Grant's lap is doubly shocking. She blinks up at him for a few long moments, confused and disoriented, until the memories break through the haze, and she sits up quickly.

Unsurprisingly lightheaded, she wavers a bit, and nearly tumbles right off the raft. Grant steadies her silently and, even after she's regained her equilibrium, he doesn't remove his hands from her arms. She considers shrugging out of his hold, but she's a little too overwhelmed to actually turn thought into action.

She's alive. She's actually alive. She jumped out of a plane at cruising altitude, without a parachute but _with_ a deadly alien virus, and somehow survived.

No, not survived. Was _saved_.

"You saved my life," she says.

"You jumped out of a plane," he returns flatly.

"Yes, and you _saved_ me," she emphasizes. "Why?"

He frowns. "You're my wife."

Well, if they're stating the obvious…

"But you _hate_ me," she says. "So, why save me?"

"You're my wife," he repeats.

Jemma just jumped out of a plane after spending two hours desperately trying to find a way to save her own life. Her head is pounding, she's soaking wet, and she's freezing. She is _not_ in the mood to try and puzzle out the workings of Grant's mind.

The raft—which she recognizes as the sort contained in SHIELD-issue parachutes—isn't terribly large, but there's enough space for her to lie down without touching Grant, and she does so. She stares up at the sky above her, trying not to think about just how far she fell—or how that fall would have ended, if not for Grant.

Exhaustion is weighing her down. Not just from the very long day—forty-three hours and counting—but from _everything_. Three years of trying her best to get through to her husband and utterly failing, followed by five years of hating him, and now a month of being forced into constant contact. Suddenly, it's all too much.

"Why _do_ you hate me?" she asks, a touch plaintively. It's the first time she's asked in years—the first time since she gave up on getting along with him—and she catches herself off guard with it.

She thinks she catches Grant off guard, too. He's close enough to her that she can feel him tense, but she doesn't look at him. She just keeps her eyes on the clear blue sky. It's a gorgeous day, but she can't enjoy it. Not with the very new and very unwelcome knowledge of what it feels like to free-fall from forty thousand feet lingering in the back of her mind.

He's silent for a long time, long enough that she thinks he's simply going to ignore the question. Then he sighs.

"I don't," he says quietly.

She has no idea how to respond to such a blatant lie.

"I know I've been an asshole to you," he continues. "And you have every reason to hate _me_, but I don't hate you."

"Then why have you been such a-a _prat_?" she demands, propping herself up on one arm to glare at him. "From the moment we met, you've been nothing but horrible to me. Even when I tried my _hardest_ to—"

"I know," he interrupts. "And I'm—I'm sorry. That didn't have anything to do with you."

"Really?" she asks skeptically. "Making me _miserable_ didn't have anything to do with me?"

He winces slightly. "No. It didn't."

"Then…?"

"The day we met was the first time I'd seen my parents in seven years," he says, apropos of nothing.

"What?" she asks, thrown.

"I hate my parents," he says plainly. "And my older brother. I left at fifteen and never looked back. I built a life away from them—a life with SHIELD." His jaw ticks and he looks away from her. "And after all that—after _everything_—finding out that they could still force me into marriage? That despite everything that happened, they _still_ had the power to use me to advance their own agendas? It pissed me off."

He bites out the last few words, then seems to deflate. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

"I took it out on you," he admits. "Mostly because…you were there, and my parents weren't. It wasn't fair of me, I know that. And I'm sorry."

That's twice he's apologized in three minutes. Considering the fact that it's only perhaps the fourth apology he's _ever_ made to her, it certainly says something.

But she can't accept it. "It wasn't fair? I spent _years_ trying to make things work—_years_ putting up with your horrible attitude—and all you have to say is that it wasn't fair of you? I didn't have any more choice in getting married than you did, Grant!"

"You didn't," he agrees. "It wasn't fair and you didn't deserve it. And I know there's nothing I can say to make it better. All I can say is that I'm sorry."

Jemma deflates, too exhausted (and cold—plunging into the North Atlantic during October is definitely not something she's going to be doing again) to maintain her anger.

"Why now?" she asks, somewhat helplessly. "After all of these years, _now_ you're sorry?"

"You were dying," he says, with a jerky shrug. "It made me think…I wouldn't have had the right to mourn you. But I still would have."

Well. That's something, at least.

Her shoulder is starting to ache, so she sits up. "Of course you would have had the right to mourn me. I'd prefer it, in fact. It's better than you not caring about my death at all."

"I did care," he promises quietly. "That you were dying, I mean. If you wondered."

"I did," she says. "You left very quickly."

"And spent the next two hours in the briefing room," he says. "Watching you on the monitor. Like a creeper, according to Skye."

She can't help smiling, because that is _such_ a Skye thing to say. And while it truly was creepy of him to watch her without her knowledge…well. It's far outweighed by the news that he _does_ care, at least a little. Thinking that her own husband was indifferent about her impending death really did hurt, despite the fact that she accepted the way of things years ago.

"You told her about us, right?" he asks. "A few weeks ago?"

"Yes," she says. "Why? Has she been difficult? I told her it wasn't necessary."

"Not difficult," he says. "Well, not any more difficult than she already was. But she started calling me Agent Jerkface, so…"

Jemma snorts, then claps a hand over her mouth. It's not so much because of Skye's new nickname for Grant (although it is amusing, and also typical Skye) as it is the sound of her stoic, serious husband saying a word like _jerkface_.

Not so serious at the moment, though, as he smiles a little. "I thought you might have put her up to it."

"I didn't," she assures him. "All I did was give her a little background information." She mock frowns at him. "Wouldn't you say that _jerkface_ is a little below me, insult-wise?"

"You called me a stupidhead last year."

"I was _drunk_," she says, a touch defensively.

"Well, your insults are horrible when you're drunk," he says, amused.

"It's not as though you have any room to talk," she returns without any heat. "The last time you were drunk you kept calling me _tiny_."

"Fair point," he acknowledges. "That's not an insult, that's fact."

"I am _not_ tiny," she protests, thumping him on the arm. "You're just abnormally tall."

"No, no," he says. "You're definitely tiny."

"You're the tallest person on the team," she points out. "I'm of a perfectly average height."

"There's nothing average about you," he says.

She blinks at him. He's said that sort of thing before, but never like that. Never in a way that sounded like a compliment.

This may just be the easiest conversation they've ever had. It's certainly the friendliest. She thinks of his earlier claims of not hating her and wonders if it's really true, or if all of this is just a reaction to the day's events.

"Did you mean it?" she asks quietly. "When you said you don't hate me?"

Grant's smile fades. "Yes. I understand why you think I do, but…I don't."

"I don't hate you, either," she admits. "I certainly _should_, after the way you've acted, and I've _tried_, but…"

"You should," he says. "You absolutely should. But I'm glad you don't."

"I'm glad _you_ don't," she says.

"So you believe me?" he asks.

Jemma looks away. There's a ship approaching from the east. Well, it's been approaching for a while, but it's finally come close enough for her to make out the SHIELD logo it bears. Their rescue, she presumes, and looks back at Grant to find him watching her. He does appear to be in earnest.

"Yes," she says finally. "I suppose if you did hate me, I'd be dead right now." She can't help a slight shudder at the memory of that free-fall. She sees plenty of nightmares in her future. "Thank you for that, by the way."

"You're welcome," he says. He hesitates, then takes a deep breath. "Look, I know I—I don't deserve it, after the way I've treated you. And you don't owe me anything. But…"

"Yes?" she asks.

"Do you think we could start over?" he asks. "Give that whole _making the best of it_ thing another try?"

She's too stunned to even smile at the way he mimics her accent for the 'making the best of it' part—quoting the phrase she so often threw at him, in those first few years. She certainly didn't see that question coming.

And she has no idea how to respond. After eight years of hurt feelings, is it even possible to start again? One friendly conversation, held after a very traumatic day, can't erase all of the harsh words they've exchanged in the past. They've said (and done) some truly terrible things to each other over the years. Can she let all of that go?

More importantly, how can she be sure that he's sincere? That this is more than just a reaction to how close she came to dying today? She doesn't think she'll be able to stand it, if she agrees to try again and he goes back to being horrible tomorrow.

Apparently she's been silent too long, because Grant shifts slightly and looks away.

"I know I don't deserve it," he repeats. "But—"

"No," she interrupts, which draws his eyes back to her. "I mean, let's not worry about who deserves what. If you really mean it…"

"I do," he promises. "Really."

"Then, yes," she says. "I'd like to start again."

What's life without a little risk, anyway?


End file.
